


Of Noisy Neighbours and Burnt Soufflés

by cortexinthevortex



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, No Plot/Plotless, just soufflé making, with an adorable Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexinthevortex/pseuds/cortexinthevortex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short one-shot based on the prompt 'making soufflés and general fluff' </p>
<p>Clara has a stressful evening, and the Doctor decides to help her relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Noisy Neighbours and Burnt Soufflés

The estate that Clara lived on was one of the quieter ones in the district. It was filled with an odd mix of people; a family of Indians who invited Clara over if they thought she wasn't eating properly (they were usually right); a group of students sharing a flat(their parties were often and loud but they always bought her a bottle of wine the next day to make up for it); several old ladies who complimented Clara on her fashion sense and flirted with the Doctor (much to his disgust and Clara's amusement) and the young couple next door who had recently married and they made sure the whole floor knew it. 

The block of flats reeked of onions, and as it was a council flat there were frequently used needles on the floor and cigarette stumps in bizarre places (the ceiling. How did they even manage that?) but the people usually made up for it.

Not tonight.

Music was pumping through the new bass speakers the students' had bought, making the walls tremble under Clara's fingers. Kids were screaming upstairs and running around whacking their toys against the walls, out of time to the music that made Clara's ears ache and wish that she had enough money to soundproof her room. To top it all off the happy couple next door were having their first argument, voices warbled, virtually screaming at each other about a topic that Clara couldn't determine. 

She folded her hands over her ears. She counted to ten, curling her fingers into her palms one by one, thinking of that leftover lasagne she had frozen the other day for tonight. It was a good one- she had a made the sauce herself, had enough time in her day to stand over the pot and patiently stir it until it thickened into a delicious creamy sauce. Granted, she had thought that the Doctor would show up to share it with her but he'd been caught up in a plot to explode Raxacoricofallapatorious, and as much as he used to hate those Slitheens, he'd told her, he wasn't about to let them burn as her lasagne would do if she didn't get off the phone and sort it out. Time Machine, she'd reminded him, but he had only grunted and hung up on her with a guilt-ridden apology. 

When even thoughts of lasagne weren't loud enough to block out the sobs and the out of tune wailing of drunk students, Clara gave up. She threw her red pen down on the teetering stack of unmarked essays on her coffee table and pushed her hands through her hair, on the verge of tears. These needed to be done for tomorrow- her A-Level students were beginning their exams next week, and they needed her feedback before they went on study leave and buggered off, never to be seen again. It was already six in the evening, and she had barely made a start on the tower of fifty essays. She would never be able to do it in time. Not with this racket going on. 

Conceding defeat, she unearthed her phone out from under the mark scheme and speed-dialled the first number in her phone. The image of a stick insect popped on screen and she set it down on the arm of the sofa as it rang, switching the settings to loudspeaker. Clara sauntered into the kitchen, rolling her eyes at the students upstairs as the floor above her began to shake as they danced to the next song, something upbeat and far too screamy for Clara's taste. She hoped that her students weren't up there with them- she wouldn't have to report them, but it was downright awkward when she went to put the bins out to find Michael from class 11D out cold on her front door step. 

Her phone clicked as the receiver was picked up at the other end. She ignored it, opening her fridge and rummaging until she found her dinner. There was a long silence, the only sound heavy breathing from the other end of the line. 

"Clara? You alright?" Was what the Doctor came up with when it became apparent she wasn't going to start the conversation. Clara nudged the freezer door shut with her hip. She could almost hear the Doctor frowning at her. 

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" She replied absent-mindedly, rummaging through her bag rack to find the one that she used to transport heavy loads of exercise books to and from school. 

"You don't usually phone unless the world is ending or people are dying." 

Clara flinched and her heart clenched. She coughed to try to ease the ache in her chest then pulled the bag out, all her other bags falling in a cascade around her feet. She sighed, then bent down to pick them all up and shove them precariously back where they came from. 

The Doctor seemed to realise his mistake and began to backpedal. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Not good at the feel-y stuff, I know. It's okay." She reassured him automatically. She'd been saying so many times recently- it's okay, I'm fine, don't worry about me-that it had almost become second nature.

Almost. 

"I need somewhere to crash," she confessed before he could dig himself into an even deeper hole, "I have fifty essays to mark and my neighbours are driving me insane." 

"I thought you loved your neighbours?" He teased.

"Not tonight I don't. Just listen to them." She groaned and held the phone aloft to better hear the shrieking still filtering through the wall next door and the ear splitting shouts of 'shots! Shots! Shots!' coming through the ceiling.

"I'm already here." 

***  
"Clara."

Clara ignored him. She had two essays to go- only two!- and he wasn't getting any attention from her until they were all done. Unfortunately, at this point marking was tediously boring. She was going cross-eyed from trying to decipher her students' handwriting and she couldn't tell if what they were writing in their essays was genius or complete crap. She suspected the latter. 

"Clara." He repeated, insistent. She could sense him standing a few feet away from her, hands twisting at his midriff as he studied her. Clara read through the conclusion of the essay she was marking and awarded the author two extra ticks, noting down the final grade in her planner and scribbling a comment down the bottom and along the margins. 

"Not now, Doctor, I'm working." She scolded, reaching out for the last in her pile of work to finish. It had been written by a student who evidently hadn't put in much effort as the finished essay was only three quarters of a page long. Despite what that meant for their final grade and their exams next week, Clara found herself offering up a quick prayer of thanks.

"You've been working for the past four hours." He pointed out. She looked up at him curiously. The old Doctor, her original Doctor, would be pouting and whining at her, would fling himself down on the steps nearest to her chair in the console room and prod her until she put down her pen to give him her full attention. This one would never do that in a million years- instead he's standing in front of her, face calm and controlled, the only sign of his need to speak to her the earnestness of his eyes darting from her work to her face and the hands now clasped behind his back. 

"Go fiddle with something until I'm done. I won't be long, this is the last one." She returned to the essay, quickly scanning through the paragraphs and ticking off the marks as they came. She's done this so many times that she no longer needed the mark scheme. Maybe not even for several years.

The Doctor huffed, then sighed louder, and when it became clear that he's not going to get her attention he turned on his heel and left the room.

Clara hid a smile behind her hand.

The Doctor disappears for a good half an hour, leaving Clara ample time to finish the last of her work and eat her dinner. She wonders briefly where he's gone- usually, she'd be able to hear him tinkering with something in the innards of the TARDIS or his mutters through the TARDIS speakers that the ship played to reassure them when they were apart- but there was nothing, no indication of what he was getting up to. 

It worried her, to say the least. 

"Clara." 

She jumped up in surprise, the empty lasagne dish falling from her lap and smashing on the floor. She winced, climbing a step to avoid the razor sharp shards of glass scattered on the floor, and glared at the Doctor. His face was expressionless as ever, but his forehead was wrinkled and his eyes were round O's of shock. 

"Oops." He said. He looked almost bemused at the mess below him, as if he couldn't understand how it got there. She realised that he probably hadn't noticed she'd even been holding the dirty dish.

"Where have you been?" She asked him, swinging on the stair banisters and landing gracefully at his feet. The glass shards melted into the floor, harmless, the TARDIS cleaning them away with a disgruntled beep. 

He shoved a ceramic bowl at her. There was thick black smoke rising from the centre. It smelled repungent. "You were hungry." He shrugged, eyes shifting from the bowl to her face and back again. 

"So you made me a...um..." She peered into the bowl at the sunken, stodgy mess in the bottom that resembled tar. It smelled terrible, like burning rubber and bonfire smoke. She wouldn't be surprised that, if she touched it, her hands would be stained an inky black. 

Clara wondered how he had managed to make such a monumental mess out of a soufflé. It looked like it was going to achieve sentience and run from the bowl at any moment.

"A soufflé!" He supplied helpfully, smiling. "You love soufflés." 

"I...do..." She took the bowl from him. Gingerly, she poked the 'soufflé' with the fork he gave her and tried to smile when it pierced the cracked surface, a runny liquid oozing from the four holes and dyeing the plated metal inky black. She grimaced, then quickly turned it into a smile when she remembered he was watching for her reaction. 

"You don't like it, do you." It wasn't a question: it was a statement, and Clara could hear the disappointment and irritation in his voice. He'd been trying to keep her happy, to stop her from spiralling back to the depression she had suffered after Danny by softening up to her and being with her as much as possible, doubling their adventures together to help her heal. They were all the other had left- the thought of living without each other made both feel physically sick and made Clara want to scream. The Doctor felt that Danny dying had been his fault- he had confessed that shortly after their Christmas together, when he was trying to convince her to stay with him permanently on board the TARDIS- and he was trying, desperately trying, to take care of her like he would have wanted. 

Clara didn't want him to feel like he'd failed. 

"Doctor," she laughed, "it's not that I don't like it. You just can't bake a decent soufflé." 

His eyebrows drew together. "Yes, I can. I learnt in France during the French Revolution-" He began to babble as she took him by the hand and led him to the TARDIS kitchens, abandoning the soufflé for the TARDIS to dispose of with another whine of protest. 

"That's why you're so bad at it." 

"Excuse me? The French make the best soufflés. I should know, I was there." 

"During the French Revolution, Doctor. The soufflés were made using the wrong ingredients because of famine. And besides, we don't cook in stone ovens anymore." She lectured, the hand that wasn't already held gently in his gesticulating furiously as she explained. He gave her a small smile.

"-we could always go out and buy the stuff, if the only food you have is leftover from France." Clara tugged on his hand, spinning to face him and walking backwards. "What do you think?"

"I think that you're probably a wonderful teacher." 

She blinked twice, surprised, then huffed and pulled him along harder. "Flattery won't get you out of this," she warned.

He chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it." 

***

"You're stirring all wrong."

"I am not." 

"Give it here."

"No."

"Clara."

"Doctor." 

He stared at his stubborn companion's back, at the shoulder muscles hunched over the bowl cradled in her arms and the flecks of flour that had attached themselves to her jumper. He could tell, even from a metre away, that the motions that she was making were all wrong- she was whisking too fast, the mixture would lose all it's air- but she wouldn't pay attention to any of his advice. 

"You'll ruin it." He tried again. Clara turned around and lifted an eyebrow. He flapped his hands at her. "You should be stirring slower." 

She huffed. "Says you. Shut up," she asserted when he began to feebly protest, "and turn on the oven. Gas mark five, thanks." 

The Doctor grumbled and banged some pots and pans around in defiance, but ultimately did as he was asked. He may be convinced that she was making soufflés wrong, but he wasn't petty enough to deliberately sabotage her efforts. Not when she had essentially sabotaged herself. 

"Done." He reported back to her. He leaned against the counter she was working on, back to the counter top, and watched her add lemon lazily. He acted like he was disinterested by what she was doing. It wouldn't do for her to know that he was taking notes on how she baked for future reference, just in case her soufflé turned out halfway decent. He was hoping that it didn't- the bragging would be unbearable otherwise.

Clara finished folding in the last of the lemon essence, then poured the mixture into a ramekin and lovingly slid it into the oven. She shut the glass door and patted it fondly. 

"There." She came and stood next to him, mimicking his stance and crossing her arms across her chest. 

The Doctor shifted, already bored, fingers tracing the patterns in the wood behind him. "What do we do now?"

Clara tilted her head at him and pursed her lips, thinking. A wicked grin curled across her lips and she reached behind her, feeling for something. 

"What?" The Doctor tried to look around her, but she twisted with him.

"No peeking." She admonished, hands staying behind her back. He shook his head, fighting a smile, and prepared to leave, making a mental list of what needed his attention on the TARDIS. He had settled on the first in his list, a faulty power crystal in the dematerialisation circuit, when Clara put her hands on his face and stopped him. 

He froze. His mind stuttered as he tried to comprehend what was happening- Clara. Hands. On. His. Face- but before he could catch up fully and respond Clara had already removed her palms from his cheeks and hidden them once more. 

"Oh, Doctor," she sang, her eyes widened innocently at him, "There's something on your face." 

"What?" He demanded. She laughed and twisted her heels, shuffling adorably on the tiled floor. The Doctor looked at his reflection in the tinted microwave door and scowled.

She'd wiped a sticky hand print of soufflé mix on each of his cheeks.

Still scowling the Doctor advanced on Clara, who backed up to stop him from grabbing her arms to use her makeshift food weapon against her. He made no such move, however, and she found herself cornered against the counter on the other side of the kitchen. He prowled towards her and halted a metre from her, hesitant to close the last of the gap. Clara, thinking she was winning, began to smirk-

-which quickly turned into a squeal when the Doctor, demonstrating flexibility that should not be possible for an alien in a body his age, dived above her for the open bag of flour in the overhead cupboard and tipped the contents on her head. He even shook the bag afterwards to make sure that every speck of flour was covering her. 

Clara raised her arms, shaking them, trying to dislodge the powder. It was no use- it had attached itself to the fibres in her jumper and jeans, and when she tried to scrape it off, all she managed to do was smear the flour in further. She glared up at the Doctor. She looked so angry he genuinely feared for his life. 

"That's it." She ground out between her teeth. "You better run." 

The Doctor barked out a laugh, already holding a jar of marmalade in readiness for what was to come. The gleeful, childish part of him was whooping for joy inside his chest, more than ready to cover Clara in as much food as he could get his hands on. He almost felt like his previous self. 

"Bring it on, Oswald."

***  
Two jars of jam, some marmalade, a bowl of fruit and a smashed watermelon later, the soufflé had finally finished baking. The two paused comically, the air filled with flour, sticky spatulas held aloft in preparation for their next round. Taking advantage of the Doctor's distraction, Clara threw an odd chunk of watermelon at him to get the last word. It hit his cheek and slid down slowly, falling to the floor in a puddle of its own juice. The Doctor furrowed his brow, but otherwise retained his dignity and said nothing other than a curt,

"Soufflé's done."

"So it is." Clara agreed. She took an experimental step towards the oven, and when the Doctor didn't immediately attack her, turned her back. 

Big mistake. 

A wet trickle of something cold travelled down the back of her neck, making her hiss and arch her spine in discomfort. She heard him snicker behind her. 

"You're such a child." She commented, opening the oven. It was quite a dangerous move, considering the flammable flour cloud they had inadvertently created during their fight, but luckily the TARDIS sucked the flour from the air before they all blew up. Clara said thank you and patted the wall closest to her gratefully. They hated each other less and less with every passing day. 

Clara pulled the soufflé out on the tray, then turned to crow at the Doctor triumphantly, "Perfect, see! I can make soufflés better than you." 

He grumbled, jumping awkwardly from foot to foot anxiously. He winced. "Sorry." He apologised, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Clara's heart sank at the sight of him, apologising for something that had been kind hearted. She chastised herself for making him feel that way, then stood on her tiptoes and placed a nervous kiss on his cheek. 

"Thank you." She said sincerely.

"For what?" He replied earnestly, confused. He had messed up, after all.

She smiled. "For caring." 

Later, as they sat on the sofa taking the first tentative bites of her soufflé, Clara could've have sworn that the Doctor had a hint of a blush on his cheek where her lips had been.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr, @cortexinthevortex, or on Wattpad, @WhovianInSpace96, if you like my pointless ramblings.


End file.
